« They want me to convince the witness to change his story. The man who saw Cassie grab you is named Lucas Chambers; he’s one of my associates. Your parents discovered our connection. »
Greg clenched his fists.
« They asked me to talk to him, to suggest that he might have been mistaken about what he saw. That he might have been too far away to really say so. That it might be better for everyone if he simply said he wasn’t sure anymore. »
« And? » I asked, although I already knew the answer.
« I told them to get out of my sight, » Greg said. « Do they realize what they were asking me? This is witness tampering. It’s a federal crime. I could lose my license, my career, everything. »
He looked at me with a kind of horror.
« I didn’t know your whole family was so rotten. »
« Not all of my family, » I said quietly. « Just most of them. »
Greg got up and began pacing the room.
« I’ve already called Lucas. I warned him that someone might try to contact him and pressure him to change his statement. He’s furious. He’s considering filing a harassment complaint if they try. »
« They’ll try, » I said. « They’ll find a way. They always do. »
But even as I said it, I felt a glimmer of hope. Because this time, they were trapped. This time, there were too many witnesses, too much evidence, too many people who knew the truth. This time, their usual tactics wouldn’t work.
They had fallen into the trap. They had just single-handedly drowned their last hope.
Greg left around noon, promising to return later with real food because hospital food is a crime.
Dr. Kingsley came by to check my stitches and said I was ‘healing well’, which in medical terms meant I looked like I’d lost a fight to a blender, but I wasn’t going to die from it.
I was alone, staring at the ceiling and contemplating the strange turns that life takes, when my phone rang. Unknown number.
« Ms. Wells? This is Jennifer Hart from Hartwell and Associates. I’m the attorney handling your case. »
« My case? »
« Regarding the assault case against your sister, Cassandra Wells, I wanted to share my perspective on the proceedings and discuss certain developments. »
I sat up, ignoring the tension of the stitches.
« What types of developments? »
« Your sister’s defense attorney contacted us this morning. He wants to negotiate a plea agreement. »
My heart started pounding.
« What kind of advocacy agreement? »
« They are concerned about the strength of the prosecution’s case. The video evidence is overwhelming, the witness statements are strong, and the aggravating circumstances—assaulting a disabled person, resulting in serious injury—mean that your sister risks a significant prison sentence if the case goes to court. »
» How long ? «
« The prosecutor is convinced they can obtain a sentence of 10 years or more, given the public nature of the attack and its clear premeditation. »
Ten years. A decade in Cassie’s life. She would be 41 when she gets out. Her forties. Her youth, her beauty, her best years spent in a cell.
I should have felt triumphant, avenged. Instead, I felt complex.
« What are they proposing? » I asked.
« If you agree to submit a victim impact statement requesting leniency, and if you are willing to tell the judge that you believe in your sister’s rehabilitation, she will be willing to plead guilty to a reduced charge: aggravated assault instead of assault with intent to cause serious bodily harm. With your statement and a guilty plea, she would likely serve a two-year sentence. Perhaps less if she behaves well. »
Two years instead of ten. Still prison, still consequences, but not enough to destroy a life.
“There’s a catch,” Ms. Hart continued. “They’re demanding damages. Full reimbursement of your medical expenses, your physical and emotional suffering, as well as punitive damages. They’re offering a total of $420,000.”
I almost dropped the phone.
« Four hundred and twenty thousand? »
« Your medical expenses related to your current hospitalization amount to nearly $60,000. When you add the lost wages, the necessary therapy sessions, the physical and emotional suffering related to the assault, as well as punitive damages for emotional distress, the amount is quite reasonable. Some lawyers would even claim double that. »
« But my parents don’t have that kind of money. »
« That’s their problem, not yours, » Ms. Hart said calmly. « If they want this deal, they pay. Otherwise, there will be a trial, and your sister will serve the maximum sentence of ten years. »
« When will they have to pay? »
« The preliminary hearing is scheduled for next week. They will have to transfer the entire sum into our trust account before that hearing. In seven days. »
Seven days to raise $420,000.
It was impossible. My parents lived comfortably, but without luxury. My father was a middle manager at an insurance company. My mother worked part-time in a boutique. They had a beautiful house, a sailboat they took out on weekends, their retirement savings, but nearly half a million dollars in cash?
« Ms. Wells, I need to know. Are you willing to submit the clemency petition if they meet the financial requirements? »
Was I?
Two years in prison wouldn’t ruin Cassie’s life. She’d survive it. Maybe it would even change her, forcing her to face the consequences of her actions. Ten years, on the other hand… that was different. It would irrevocably alter her life.
And that sum—$420,000—would allow me to live comfortably for the rest of my life. I could afford the necessary medical equipment, therapy sessions, and modifications to my future home. I could live independently, without depending on disability benefits or charity.
« Yes, » I finally said. « If they repay the full amount owed within the given timeframe, I will submit the claim. »
« Good, » said Ms. Hart. « I’ll keep them informed. One week, Ms. Wells, the countdown has begun. »
My parents arrived that evening, looking haggard. Dad’s face was grey, his shoulders slumped. Mom had aged ten years in three days.
« Four hundred and twenty thousand dollars, » said Dad without preamble. « That’s what they’re demanding. »
« That’s what the lawyer calculated, » I said in a neutral tone.
“We don’t have that money,” said Mom, her voice breaking. “We went to the bank. We called all our contacts. We can’t…”
« You can liquidate your 400 and 1KS, » I said calmly.
They were staring at me.
“I checked. Your two retirement accounts total about $280,000. With penalties and taxes for early withdrawal, you would be left with about $200,000. You can sell the sailboat, not on the market, but to a wholesaler or liquidator. They will pay you cash immediately, but for a fraction of its value. That’s another $100,000, if you’re lucky. For the rest, there are private lenders who finance mortgages in days, not weeks.”
The silence was deafening.
« This is our retirement, » Dad finally said. « It’s everything we’ve worked for our whole lives. Selling to liquidators? High-interest loans? We’re going to lose 50% of the value of everything. We’re going to be ruined. »
« And I have a broken spine, » I said harshly. « My career is over, my life as I knew it is finished. Because Cassie was texting while driving and you forced me to lie. Because you protected her, encouraged her, and sacrificed me for her comfort my whole life. »
« We did what we thought was best for the family, » whispered Mom.
« You did what was easiest for Cassie, » I corrected. « You always have. And now it’s up to you to decide what’s more important: your retirement fund or your daughter’s freedom. »
Dad’s face turned red.
« Are you really going to do that? Are you really going to destroy your own family? »
« I’m not destroying anything, » I said. « Cassie destroyed this family the moment she grabbed me and threw me against that glass tower. I simply refuse to lie again. You pay the damages, I sign the plea agreement, Cassie gets two years instead of ten. Everyone’s cleared. »
« Everyone but us, » spat Dad. « We’ll have nothing. No pension, no savings, no boat. »
« You’ll have your house, your job, and your health, » I said. « That’s more than Cassie left me. »
This time, Mom really cried, not fake tears.
« How can you be so cruel? »
« I learned from the best, » I said.
They left without another word.
For the next week, I anxiously watched the clock. I stayed in the hospital longer than necessary, partly because Dr. Kingsley insisted on monitoring me for any complications, and partly because I had nowhere else to go. My apartment was on the third floor with no elevator, and I’d been staying with my parents before the engagement party. That option was now clearly out of the question.
Greg came to see me every day, bringing me food and keeping me company. He had officially broken off the engagement, returning the ring to his mother and telling Cassie’s lawyer that there would be no reconciliation. His parents had even offered to help me find a suitable apartment, a gesture that moved me to tears.
Dr. Kingsley regularly checked on me and kept me updated on Cassie’s condition. She had been released on bail and was staying with our parents. Apparently, she had had a breakdown: she was screaming, throwing things, and blaming everyone but herself.
On the sixth day, my lawyer called.
“They’re doing it,” Ms. Hart said. “Your father liquidated his 400 and 1KS accounts this morning and incurred a significant loss due to penalties. They also took the sailboat to a scrap yard—they practically gave it away for cash immediately, at a ridiculously low price—and they signed documents with a high-interest lender this afternoon to secure the necessary financing.”
« Will they succeed? If the cables are clear? »
« Just barely. It’s going to come down to the wire. »
On the seventh day, the day of the deadline, I was sitting in my hospital room, my phone on my knees, looking at the time. The deadline was 5 p.m.
At 4:47 PM, my lawyer called.
« The transfer has just been completed, » she said. « $420,000, paid in full. »
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath.
« I will draft your victim impact statement this evening. You will need to sign it tomorrow, and we will submit it to the judge. The hearing is scheduled for Friday. »
« Okay, » I said.
« Mrs. Wells, Matilda, that’s the right thing to do. You’re giving her a chance at redemption. That’s more than most people would do. »
After she hung up, I sat in the silence of the hospital room, thinking about the price of family. My parents had paid $420,000 to keep Cassie out of prison for ten years. They had lost their retirement, their sailboat, their financial security; they had gone into crippling debt, taking on excessive debt that would take them years to repay.
Everything for Cassie.
They never offered to help me pay for medical expenses, never offered to pay for the wheelchair I had saved up for for two years, never offered anything other than demands that I be smaller, quieter, more practical.
The money was deposited into my lawyer’s trust account, and I signed the clemency petition.
Two days later, Cassie appeared before a judge and pleaded guilty to aggravated assault. She was sentenced to two years in a state correctional facility, with the possibility of parole after eighteen months for good behavior.
My victim impact statement was read aloud in court. In it, I described the pain, the betrayal, the feeling of being erased and diminished forever. But I also wrote that I believed in change, that I hoped my sister would use this time to reflect and mature, that I wanted justice, but not revenge.
I did not attend the hearing. I followed it from my hospital room via video conference. I saw Cassie’s face at the moment of the verdict: shock, disbelief, and finally, for the first time in living memory, something that seemed to be genuine remorse.
My parents were sitting behind her, holding hands, their faces etched with grief.
Greg was sitting at the back of the courtroom. Once the hearing was over, he looked straight into the camera and nodded once.
A goodbye. A thank you. The recognition that some things, once broken, cannot be repaired.
The money was transferred from the trust account to my personal account: $420,000. More money than I ever imagined I could own.
I used part of it to pay off my medical debts. Another part to rent a nice, accessible apartment in a building with an elevator and wide doorways. And yet another part to set up a trust fund for my future medical needs.
And then I did something I never thought I’d have the courage to do.
I cut off all contact with my parents. I blocked their numbers. I returned their letters unopened. When they showed up at my new apartment, I didn’t open the door.
They had made their choice. They had always made their choice. Now it was my turn.
I took that money and started a new life.
Eighteen months have passed since the court verdict, and today I am sitting on a sunny beach in the south of France. For the first time in forty-two months, I no longer feel like I am drowning.
The Mediterranean stretches out before me, an unreal blue, a color you don’t find in Charleston. The sand is warm under my left hand, against the back of my wheelchair.
My matte black carbon chair, the very one that Cassie had tried to hide under that tablecloth, now sits proudly in the sun.
I’m not hiding anymore.
The $420,000 settlement changed everything. Not because money cures paralysis—it doesn’t, and anyone who claims otherwise is just trying to sell you something—but because it gave me choices. Real choices. Not the crumbs my family offered with their sympathetic smiles and promises like, « Maybe next year, Matilda. »
I used a significant portion of it to fund an experimental treatment at the Zurich Neuroscience Research Institute, a cutting-edge technology involving neural chip implants. The kind of thing that elicits either enthusiasm or skepticism from neurologists, with little nuance.
Dr. Kingsley, may God bless her for her pragmatism, gave me the contact details with a simple: « It’s worth a try. Nothing is guaranteed, but the research is promising. »
The medical outcome wasn’t a miracle, like in the movies, where you see someone get up and walk. Recovery never happens that way, no matter what those feel-good TV channels say.
But three weeks ago, during one of my focused visualization exercises, something happened.
My right big toe twitched, slightly, barely a millimeter.
But I felt it: a tingling electric current that ran through my calf, following neural pathways that had remained obscure and silent during 42 months of agony.
The first real sensation under my T-10 injury since the Jeep rollover. I had remained rooted to the spot, staring at my foot for a good minute, convinced I had dreamt it.
So I did it again. And again.
Each time, that tiny twitch, that whisper of reconnection between my brain and my body.
« Matilda, did you see that? » Mari, the 35-year-old woman sitting next to me on the lounge chair, had been watching me during one of my exercises yesterday. When my toe wiggled, she squealed with delight and jumped up, grabbing my shoulders. She hugged me so tightly I could hardly breathe, crying even harder than I was.
Husband, my chosen family.
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